


Altruism

by IreneClaire



Series: Various Notions Collection [12]
Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Angst, Bromance, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 07:06:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5699431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IreneClaire/pseuds/IreneClaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I felt a bit of an urge to bring back Prysm from 'Perceptions'. Thanks to KQ and Swifters for pushing this along!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Hawaii Five-0 or any characters. No copyright infringement intended.

**H5O* H5O* H5O* H5O* H5O**

 

He sat there hunched over, subtle tremors wracking his thin frame, and completely confused. The seat of his favorite black pants had long ago soaked up the now cold dregs of coffee which puddled under him on the tiled floor. He'd lost his private journal somewhere in the mayhem. His cell phone lay broken off to the side; the screen spidered and the innards ruined by its fall onto the same wet floor. He sat there stunned and absolutely _baffled_ by how he'd wound up in the local coffee shop _sitting_ on the amber-stained tile with a gun in his hand and the blonde head of a cop in his lap. Staring up in horror at the muzzle of another weapon which seemed unerringly aimed at his forehead.

"Put the gun down!" The portly rent-a-cop bellowed over the din of so much other noise. Around their incredible stand-off, people gasped or even screamed. An occasional crash sounded and feet scuffled as patrons made for any exit they could find. As the door opened to the sidewalk, not so distant sirens could finally be heard and Prysm could have laughed in relief had he the nerve left in his body. However, with scarcely six feet to spare, neither gun moved an inch from its opposite target.

" _Down_! Goddamnit ... put the gun _down_ ... and slide the bag over! Do it, kid! Do it ... _now_!"

Instead of obeying, Prysm jerked his head to the negative, clammy fingers scrambling to hold the unfamiliar gun just the right way while his free hand pushed hard into the gaping wound in the real officer's shoulder to stop the flow of blood. He didn't know where his defiance was coming from as a low moan reached his ears. The blonde cop was rousing, but just barely and Prysm forced himself to stay his resolve by grasping the cop's gun even more tightly in his fist.

"No," he ground out when the blonde head stirred weakly in his lap. Finger tips flexed in a rivulets of cream-colored coffee and then stilled. The sports bag full of drugs and money sat directly to Prysm's right; virtually under his right elbow. It was all too much to cope with but Prysm shook his head again as his adversary loudly cursed him. "No. Back _off_ ... just stay away from me."

He did his best to keep his calm when the fake guard shouted at him, but he was struggling. He seriously wanted to give up. Just do what he was told and walk away. He was way out of his league and beyond his means. Mentally, physically and on the edge of emotional turmoil, Prysm was only seventeen years old and well on his way to a near panic. The stress he was under was unfamiliar territory and he didn't much like it. He fought fear with his waning sense of courage all the while staring down the rent-a-cop who was anything but an official representative of the law. He was sure of that; he'd _seen_ the drugs change hands. He'd swear to anyone who'd ever believe him that he'd seen significant money change hands just before all hell had broken loose inside the coffee shop. He'd vow at that very moment that he was only being spared his life because he had a tenuous control on one very important sports bag. Plus, and though their numbers were fast dwindling, there were still far too many witnesses milling about. One such person in particular who remained much too close for the guard's dubious hold on comfort.

In the corner, wedged between the cafe's big street-side window and an overturned chair, a well-dresssed business woman sat on the floor with her knees drawn up to her chest. Eyes like saucers, she stared dumbly at the rent-a-cop much the same as Prysm. Though she was unable to speak at that very moment, her mind was working in overdrive and she would eventually become a stalwart witness to Prysm's cause. But now, just then, neither he nor she were capable of moving.

"I don't have time for this!" The guard growled angrily as the sirens drew closer to the cafe. He wiped his face from perspiration, his anger increasing in spades. He couldn't fathom how some spikey-haired teenager, dressed like a fucking _vampire_ , continued to foil his plans. Because of where he stood now, he was incredibly uncertain as to his next move. The kid was close ... so _close_ ... but he didn't dare take action without a valid alibi. In a fury, he glared at the business woman as if his inability to get his way was her fault. He was disgusted by her eyes which met his so very clearly. She was petrified but not so unaware that she'd hold no value if questioned. If he killed the vampire-like teen outright, he'd have to kill her, too.

She'd seen him shoot the plainclothes blonde cop at point blank range. She'd witnessed him kill the one gang member lying inert off to her right, a bloody sneaker a mere hands-breadth from her briefcase. Once he started, he'd simply have to keep taking out witness after witness with no end in sight. Starting with the already deceased gang member, he'd have to take out the obnoxiously dressed vampire-teen, followed by the business woman ... then he'd have no recourse to finish off the already badly wounded cop; a dire move that would need to be undertaken in cold blood.

But he wanted the damned bag which held tens of thousands of dollars worth of drugs and nearly fifty-thousand dollars in cash money. With his prize a few feet away, bargaining with the weird kid was his only chance before the real police arrived. If he failed in the next few minutes, he'd have no choice but to initiate his killing spree.

Jaw clenched, the guard shifted his feet to rock a step closer to the boy. His eyes dropped to the wounded cop as he moved, confused as to why the weird teen even _cared_ about the man. "Listen," he said, stopping abruptly when the opposing gun flew directly in line with his face. "Just ... hold up and listen to me!"

"No way! Back off!" Prysm hissed through his teeth, tension vibrating though his body as the threat escalated. He raised the gun higher in kind, amazed with himself for even thinking he might be able to pull the trigger. "Back the fuck off! I mean it!"

"Listen ... I don't want you ... I want the _bag_ ," the guard snarled. "Just ... keep the damned gun then and give me the bag. You can do that much, can't you?"

Partially frozen in fear, Prysm couldn't feel the fingers of his left hand which held a thickly wadded pile of napkins against the hole in the blonde officer's shoulder. He did feel the cop's heavy gun in his palm though, and the big black canvas sports bag he'd inadvertently wound up also protecting on the floor.

The two warring gang members had entered the cafe at just the wrong time. Or, maybe it was the precisely right time because it was when _Mr. Fake Fat Rent-a-Cop_ was demanding his dues from the shop's equally villainous owner. It seemed that everyone suddenly wanted a piece of what was evidently a lucrative pie. But the altercation had escalated with a startling speed. Guns had been drawn, threats made and customers had bolted for cover as the first of too many bullets flew through the air.

Prysm had just paid for his large black coffee, extra sugar no milk. His friend had been placing his order for his own extra sweet beverage. Well behind them both in the queue had been the blonde cop, someone he'd met once but had remembered well enough. He remembered the name - _Danny_ \- and knew with one quick glance that the cop had known him as well. They hadn't spoken though; each had been determined to remain content in their own divergent world. But then it had happened and Prysm's coffee cup had literally dropped out of his hands at the first shout of alarm, coupled with the initial flurry of gunfire.

The liquid amber mess from his paper cup had joined all the others to stain the counter, the floor and create splatters of too many brown lakes. He'd slipped, fallen and found himself crawling over to Danny on his hands and knees. A reaction he couldn't quite explain. He'd pulled Danny off to the side when the rent-a-cop went toe to toe with the gang member. He'd automatically grabbed the gun from Danny's fingers as the cop lost consciousness. He'd been unaware of what he'd done until he found himself sitting up against the counter, Danny's head in his lap and a police-issued gun in his hand.

So now, fifteen minutes later, Prysm was still sitting in a coffee-scented pool of liquid and not at all oblivious to what was soaking steadily though his favorite pants as he'd have liked. And his friend? Well, he'd lived up to his apropos nickname of Skittish. He was long gone if not one of the gawkers pacing the outside for an exciting look in at the chaos. For once, Prysm appreciated his friend's very nervous tendencies, because with Danny unconscious, he was entirely alone.

"Put. The. Gun. Down! I want that bag!' The rent-a-cop tried to move closer again, but Prysm gritted his teeth, the nausea churning crazily inside his stomach.

The guy was all wrong. Rent-a-cops didn't carry firearms and this one was holding an impressive looking handgun. Something nearly as impressive as the one he now held in his own hand which he'd uncomprehendingly scooped up. And if Danny hadn't been able to control the frightening situation, what in _hell_ did Prysm think he was doing? He'd worked himself into a corner and was now irretrievably stuck with his knee-jerk decision beyond any type of reasonable measure.

He had no answers either because asking a question was as fruitless as trying to explain his current predicament. The ugly splash of glistening red gore owned by the dead body was just inside his periphery. He'd never seen a dead person before, let alone one killed before his very eyes. For all his usual confidence and self presence, Prysm was having quite the time rationalizing what he'd borne witness to that very sunny afternoon. Much like the business woman who continued to simply stare from him to the face of their attacker.

"Shit," he moaned softly under his breath. Tied in knots and a loss of what to do, he felt sick to his stomach. What the hell had gone so terribly wrong that day that he'd managed to cross such paths with a maniac and two warring gangs?

"Gimme the bag, kid," the man demanded. His impatience grew as he adjusted his ample weight from foot to foot. "I swear to God, you have five seconds!"

"No," Prysm interrupted nervously as he caught new movement from just inside the doorway to the shoppe. A few stragglers still stumbled over their own feet to escape, yet this particular shadow was coming in.

He didn't dare look though. His mouth went dry as he stared back into the pitch black eyes of pure hatred. He didn't _dare_ look away or move single muscle. He knew that he'd be dead the minute his gun wavered or he showed more doubt than he currently was projecting. He'd seen too much and now he'd immersed himself far too deeply in this particular hot mess. The blonde cop too in fact, because after all was said and done, the cop he held partly in his lap was indeed a _real_ cop. Without a doubt, Prysm knew their fate if he looked away, dropped his aim, or even slid the bag over as demanded.

Prysm felt the sweat trickling down the back of his black t-shirt as the tendons in his shoulders began to shake. Ever so slowly he rested his right elbow on the bag of contraband. The heavy fall of black hair which he'd purposefully styled over his heavily mascara'ed left eye interfered with his vision, sweat made matters worse as it leaked down the side of his face to create an obnoxious burning itch. Still, Prysm couldn't move. Behind the fake cop, the shadow lurked cautiously closer and he registered the change in the guard's breathing as he too felt the presence.

"What's going on in here?" This new voice was deep, calm and commanding without being confrontational. There was a distinct note of stress not so hidden in the timbre though and Prysm allowed his eyes to flicker briefly to its owner.

"I got this. No need for heroics, bud," the fat man warned the new arrival without turning around or giving the man the courtesy of acknowledgment. "Get out of here. I don't need the help ... so if you'd kindly leave us ... things are under control."

"I highly doubt that. _Bud_." The new man rudely intoned. "There's nothing even remotely under control here. _FUBAR_ is more like it."

Prysm braved another quick study, gauging the worn slippahs, casual kahki cargo shorts and dark blue t-shirt. Tall, mostly nondescript meaning Hawaiian-borne and bred, yet carrying an air of authority, the man had no intention of leaving despite his lack of weaponry. Then there was a flash of gold and the most unlikely of introductions.

"Commander Steve McGarrett. Five-0. That man right there is my partner. So now why don't you tell me - _Bud_ \- just what the hell's going on here?"

A long pause followed, one where the rent-a-cop's face completely closed off. Red splotches appeared on his neck as sweat began to trickle down his ruddy cheeks. Yet, from Prysm's vantage, the dark eyes glittered with a dangerous glean despite the beads of moisture which dappled his skin.

"He intended to rob the coffee shoppe with his little friend. When the off-duty cop tried to intervene, they grappled over the gun and he shot him, too," the fake cop explained, pointing once towards the dead gang member as Prysm's new found _little friend_ and gesturing once towards the unconscious Danny. His eyes now seared holes through Prysm's own, daring him to object, angry and entirely loathing.

"He shot that HPD cop in cold blood and now ... _now_ he's threatening to kill him unless I back off and get him a free pass out of here. That bag there ... the one under his arm ... its going to hold all the evidence you need."

"What! No way!" Prsym's eyes bulged large in disbelief before he blurted the only thing he could think of. "He's ... lying! He... he shot both of them and _he's_ only still here because he wants the bag for himself!"

"You can't be serious?" The fat man chuffed incredulously just for Steve's sake as he glared at the 5-0 badge before snarling back at Prysm. "You'll try anything to get out of here, won't you?"

Steve studied the Goth teen who sat on the floor with his back against the counter with his partner's hefty P-30 awkwardly held in one hand. It was clear that the safety was off and Steve's lips thinned as he realized the boy's free hand was intentionally pressed into the wound on his friend's shoulder. Something had certainly gone wrong, but Danny wasn't going to be able to provide any immediate answers.

The teen's legs were splayed wide, Danny's head rocked gently on his left thigh while the blood-stained fingers of the his left hand fisted a wad of material - likely napkins - into a steadily bleeding shoulder wound. He was dressed entirely in black, the pure white of his visible skin incredibly porcelain for being in the tropics. A silver piercing glimmered on his bottom lip, the ever-shifting sparkle evidence of the boy's nervous state.

In fact, the kid was downright scared, yet oddly determined to hold his ground. The juxtaposition of black and white with the redness of blood was vivid. Stark really and as disparate as a supposedly unpredictable gunman cradling the head of a victim so very gently.

 _"What the hell?_ " Steve breathed out under his breath. Contrary to the flurry of citizens' reports made to 911, he suddenly doubted the 911 calls identifying a black-clad, Goth-like teen as a gun-weidling killer. Steve glanced towards the business woman, acknowledging her existence, palm held flat in her direction to signal he'd manage things. But their eyes met and she looked ... really _looked_ at the security guard and Steve hesitated at the oddness of her expression.

"I didn't do it, man," the teen softly pleaded, drawing Steve's attention quickly back. "If you're for _real_ ... if you're a for real cop .. you've got to listen. _He_ did it and he's just trying to get out of here and pin this on me because he knows that he's out of luck now that you've showed up!"

He lobbed his plea towards Steve, yet the gun never budged an inch from where it was aimed up at the security guard's face. Their eyes met and Steve plainly read the fear inside. He saw the doubt and then the rise in hope that he'd be believed simply for the sincerity of his words and not for the way he looked. Steve pursed his lips worriedly, fighting his need to rip the gun from the kid's fingers to get to Danny. He could shoot the teen, too. Simply be done with it since his own gun was wedged carefully in the rear band of his shorts. Just out of sight under his loose fitting t-shirt, he'd be able to turn the tide within a split second. But he felt that something was badly off with the situation. There was a niggling concern on the rise that this wasn't at all what it seemed to be and as he edged even closer, what he felt wrong was coming in waves from the security guard.

"He's out of his mind! Just look at him ... he's nothing but a drugged out _loser_!" In his left ear, Steve heard the disgusted snarl from the guard and he took the time to look at the man to see the matching sneer. He cocked his jaw unconsciously as he quickly considered the ease of which the man held his weapon; a Beretta 92 with an extended magazine and Steve did a double-take. The gun was wholly out of place for any number of very valid reasons.

 _What the fuck?_ Steve thought to himself as he catalogued that extreme oddity of the conflicting clues.

He scowled as he catalogued clue upon clue and read the varying degrees of body language. There was little doubt that the kid was immersed in Gothic culture. Dressed entirely in black, even his raven hair gleamed so thickly black it was almost blue. Steve blinked as the light changed and he saw that the hair did hold a strong midnight blue hue. One heavy lock was dyed a deep, deep blue, then looped gently over towards his ear. Intentional then and actually _pretty_ despite the circumstances. He saw the destroyed cell phone, presumably the teen's, lying broken on the ground. A few feet away, a matted and dog-eared small notebook lay spine open, its pages equally destroyed by liquid and the pounding of running feet. The strong smell of coffee combined with the fear, death and an eerie sense of an ugly anticipation.

He heard then Danny's low moan of discomfort as the teen's fingers gently found new purchase to stem the stubborn trickle of blood and Steve's eyes narrowed. The action was caring. Empathetic. A certain memory came to mind from months earlier. A conversation he'd had with Danny about his run-in with a tall Goth teen over his unreliable loaner.

 _I wonder._ Steve frowned at the musty memory, wracking his brain to remember the details from something so minutely obscure. A weird name. A strange interlude over ... his _crap loaner car_ when the Camaro was being worked on. Slowly but surely, something interesting was snicking into place inside Steve's head as his eyes flickered back to the notebook.

"How's he holding up?" Steve asked when another soft sound of distress escaped Danny's lips. His pulse quickened as he focused on Danny, his state appearing to be dire based on the volume of blood ruining his shirt. He looked at his partner, the hands lax and unmoving except for a subtle twitch every now and again. Behind closed lashes, his eyes rolled slightly and his lips quivered in pain; as if he might wake and say something, but Steve knew better as he took in every minute detail.

"He needs help," Prysm admitted. "He needs an ambulance ... I can't get the bleeding to stop. I think the bullet went all the way through, but I can't tell."

The unspoken entreaty for help proved how deeply troubled the teen was and it communicated his ongoing uncertainty as he looked nervously from Steve back to the rent-a-cop.

Steve's brow furrowed more deeply as another hint clicked into place. _Goth teenage boy,_ the broken down loaner on a miserably hot Saturday. Intelligent. Older than his years ... and a small journal of sorts. His eyes accidentally found the scuffed bound sheaf of papers on the floor near the counter and Steve wondered. Had Danny mentioned reading a few lines of _poetry_? Suddenly, he had the strangest of ideas.

"Have you folks introduced yourselves yet?" Steve asked. "Names?" He looked at the frightened woman, gaining a negative quick jerk of her head.

"What?" The older man leered. "What the hell kind of question is that? Are you Five-0 or aren't you? We need to put an end to this ridiculous ... _stand off._ If you aren't going to do something, I'll shoot him and be done with it!"

"You'll do no such thing," Steve barked back. "And as for questions ... this is a good enough one to start with." His fingers were suddenly itchy to attack now that the guard had annoyed him ... he certainly had an urge to do something in order to get to his badly injured partner as another groan emanated up from the floor. Besides the woman's subtle hint, he only hoped that the boy would remember just enough to validate his decision. Because above all things, Steve knew his partner. He knew that Danny would have tried to engage in some sort of conversation.

"Do you know his name?" Steve asked the teen now. He pointed to the fake guard first, the perplexed look proving the obvious answer. But then he gestured towards Danny, his concern blatant and he watched the teen nod, before he swallowed hard and pushed the right answer out.

"Danny," Prysm said, the understanding now slightly clearing the panic in his dark eyes. "This is _Danny_ and I tried to help him with some piece of crap car a few months ago."

"Well done," Steve purred as the fingers of his right hand strayed towards the rear of his waist-band. "We have a winner." His lip rolled up into a one-sided grin of approval and Prysm felt himself inexplicably relax. Danny and this new cop certainly did know each other and even if he, Prysm, had been discussed, there was nothing bad about that. However, he didn't have time to do or say anything else as the Five-0 commander moved on his decision.

"Hand over your weapon," Steve suddenly demanded of the astonished rent-a-cop. "Now."

With one pivot of a heel, he swung around to place himself squarely between the fat man, the anxious teen and his partner. Off to the side, the business woman let out with a squeak of terror while behind him, Steve heard a softly whispered curse. But in front of him, the supposed guard's anger flared and that was the only remaining excuse which Steve required.

Prysm instantly dropped his hand to point his gun away from the t-shirt clad back as soon as the Five-0 Commander blocked his view. He gasped, stunned as the Five-0 officer diverted attention from him and his unlikely charge. Then there was a series of short rapid movements; so _fast_ that Prysm's brain simply didn't register a single thing except that the rent-a-cop was no longer on his feet. There was a dull thud and then ... it was over.

"What?" He was panting hard by the time his cold hand was enveloped in the Commander's larger, warm one.

"Let go," Steve patiently urged. "It's over and you can let the gun go now." It took a moment longer for the boy to remember how to manage his fingers and then, Steve still had to help him. With an effort, Prysm released his clenched fist one finger at a time, allowing Danny's gun to be taken from him.

"Okay?" Prysm asked as he looked up, all the stress he'd been under flooding to the surface as a surge of adrenalin made him dizzy. His head wobbled on his neck and he coughed uncomfortably. The Commander was on his knees next to his side, one hand on Danny's cheek. The other resting on Prysm's own shoulder to offer him support and what almost looked like ... thanks.

"Yeah, we're good." Warm fingers gently squeezed Prysm's shoulder and the Commander gave him a half-smile along with a little shake to break him out of his daze. "Hello, Prysm. I'm Steve ... Danny told me a lot about you ... once. About the car."

"Oh. Okay," Prysm choked out stupidly as a sea of HPD blue descended in the small space. He ogled the officers and fretted again about what they might think until Steve shook his head, his own hand replacing Prysm's on Danny's blood-soaked shoulder. A moment later, Danny's head was gone from where it had rested against his thigh and Prysm felt lighter, yet also colder. He stared stupidly over as Steve took Danny's weight away, propping him against his own body while firmly staunching the flow of blood from the exit wound.

" _Umm_?" He murmured, his brow furrowing as he got a good look at Danny's pale face. Stammering and uncertain about what would happen next, Prysm's tongue refused to work. "But ... _he_?"

"Yeah. I got him now. I'll take care of him ... he's going to be all right," Steve soothed as Prysm woodenly sat in his cold sea of coffee. "You will be too."

Their eyes connected one last time and Prysm almost wound up reading the man's lips for the buzzing in his ears. There was something about medics and ambulances, but his head was swimming by that point and he only got bits and pieces of an odd word or two.

_"Amb ...take Dan... check you ... too. Think ... shocky. 'kay?"_

"Okay," Prysm mumbled over again. His tongue was thick inside his mouth and his brain seemed to have switched off. All he wanted to do was find a warm place to curl up and hide for the foreseeable future, if not for the rest of his life. However, at Steve's bidding, two HPD officers gently hauled him to his feet, his body oddly unwilling to behave and Prysm blinked wildly as they escaped into the bright late afternoon sun.

_**~ to be continued ~** _


	2. Chapter 2

**H5O* H5O* H5O* H5O* H5O**

 

Once HPD had control of the scene, Steve briefly dropped his forehead to Danny's and closed his eyes for the few seconds he'd have before the medics were permitted into the coffee shoppe. The quaint store-front was a local favorite of Danny's. They _knew_ him - the manager, the pleasant baristas and even some of the regular customers. They _all_ knew Danny. So when the 911 call came in, they'd used his name and Steve had received an urgent summons from where he'd been working out in the precinct's small gym. Just a few blocks from the office, Steve was there in minutes and pushing through the panicked throng to gain entrance.

"Hold on Danny. You're going to be okay ... just hold on, buddy," he whispered incessantly. On his knees, he had Danny's upper body slightly elevated, propped up because, not only did he seem to be breathing easier, but to avoid the filth and puddled coffee, and God knew what else littered the floor. With his eyes closed, Steve listened to each of Danny's labored breaths punctuated by a wheeze and soft distressed murmur. Danny was half-conscious and in considerable pain.

"Fuck," Steve muttered, his eyes snapping open in anger when he realized that the EMT's had yet to burst through the doors. Furious as Danny's muscles weakly bunched against his chest, trembling and taut.

"Medics!" He hissed, glaring at the two closest officers hard enough for one to grab his radio before the angry words ever left his mouth. "Where the hell are they!?"

Hidden from view, Steve didn't realize that Danny's eyes were open just enough to allow him to stare at a small object. Through his lashes, he was focused on the blurred smudge a few feet away. Squarish and solid, the dark burgundy of the journal's cover was obvious. It was Prysm's and he _needed_ it. Danny blinked and suddenly couldn't open his eyes for a long window of time, frightened that he might not have the time to communicate his need. Grimacing in misery as a flux of agony made his breathing hitch when Steve pressed harder into his shoulder.

Danny's fingers flexed once, objecting to his commands. He moaned in frustration just managing to point towards the glint of a spiral spine. He sensed too much activity and almost panicked as the screech of tables being pushed aside and chairs clattering on metal legs across the hard floor startled him. Black shoes. Uniformed pants cuffs and shiny black dress shoes shuffled in and out of view, his ability to see limited to the area just in front of him. Colors distorted and blurred as they moved too fast and became nothing more than a swarm of fuzzy blackness. All too close to the small book and Danny's fingers scrabbled wildly.

"That's some kid you met there, buddy," Steve murmured softly as the rough tile bit into his knees. "Do you hear me? Prysm is okay ... got him out a few minutes ago. The kid's fine, Danno." His knees were wet too, but beneath his fingers, a heat seeped out from the exit wound in Danny's upper back. Where Prysm had once pressed his hand, Steve had his palm applying even more pressure to the grievously soaked napkins. He automatically shushed the unintelligible murmur when he pressed more firmly fore and aft, crouching protectively forward to be sure Danny heard him. He frowned instantly though, seeing the half crescent of blue.

"Danno?" Steve muttered thickly into the damp matted hair, confused when he saw Danny's left hand almost spasm. But he saw it then, detached as he was from the police activity milling around them, Steve _saw_ what Danny meant as the EMT's raced through the door and towards them in a terrifying parody of slow motion.

"I'll get it," Steve whispered purposefully into Danny's ear. "Don't worry, Danno, I promise ... I'll get Prysm's book and get it back to him."

Struggling to gain purchase against the fire which ripped through his entire left side, Danny vaguely heard Steve's voice. Calm. Impatient. Filled with anger and no small amount of concern. He heard a few of the most important words. When those syllables slowly assembled themselves to make sense through the miasma of pain, Danny sighed in relief. His mouth opened, then closed before too much air could leak out of his lungs because he wasn't entirely sure he could ever take more in as a sharp pain lanced into his back. Unable to help himself, he moaned and tried to arch away from Steve despite a sudden rush of new hurried reassurances which his brain chose to discard in its distress. The sound he made was low and guttural, worsened as his upper body was shifted and a nauseating level of agony literally made his breath stutter-stop inside his chest.

_**~ to be continued ~** _


	3. Chapter 3

 

**H5O* H5O* H5O* H5O* H5O**

 

"Did you get it? All of it?" Danny's voice was thin and wispy, but the tone validated his excitement. There was no hiding that fact. His eyes were shining when Steve entered his bedroom. Danny was like a little kid at Christmas once he'd decided how he needed to reconnect with Prysm. _Reconnect_ in order to properly thank the teen and he'd enlisted a very willing Steve to help him on this particular mission.

"I did," Steve replied, his grin genuine but tempered by worry. "How are you feeling?"

Slow to get back on his feet, even after being discharged from the hospital so many days earlier, Steve found his friend in bed after quietly using his key to open Danny's front door. He tried to hide his disappointment at finding Danny bedridden - _again_ \- so early in the evening. Not even sunset yet, he'd brought dinner, picked up the requisite gifts which Danny was anticipating, and had hoped they'd be able to take a slow walk. However, based on Danny's complexion alone, that concept was going to be a moot point; Steve would be lucky to get his partner to eat more than a few bites.

"I'm good," Danny insisted when he spied the worry in Steve's eyes. "So wipe that look off your face. I'm fine."

"I don't have a _look_ , Danno. And you're not _fine_ ," Steve objected as he sat on the edge of the bed and placed the boutique's pretty red shopping bag between them. But he clearly must have had some sort of doleful expression as Danny rolled his eyes mockingly towards the ceiling. At a loss to help himself from being any other way, Steve chuffed a self-conscious sound and then, he simply opted to change the subject entirely. "I brought dinner. You can't keep eating your version of take-out or those God-awful frozen microwaved dinners."

"Oh, I see ... and what you brought as take-out is better?" Danny grinned, lop-sided, allowing the diversion despite how excited he was to see what was in the boutique's bag. He'd waited what seemed an _eternity_ for his special order to come in after finding just the right thing for the talented teen. Still, he fretted over his choice in the end and only with Steve's prodding, did Danny finally commit. Now, he was thrilled that everything had finally been done and he was staring at the bag with a smile on his face, yet the easy banter was what they both needed. In fact, they both seemed to rely on it as he slowly regained his health.

"Why's that, Steven? Take-out is _take-out_ ... doesn't change too much," he chided lightly. "Fast food is just that ... _fast_. It's not designed to _be_ anything else."

"Says you! You'd be entirely wrong with that assumption of yours," Steve snarked back, feigning outrage. But he sighed deeply then, his mouth tense as he helplessly came full circle. His friend's complexion lacked color and Danny's stamina was virtually non-existent. Even a simple conversation seemed to wear him down to a nub. "Are you sure you're feeling all right? How's the shoulder? Do you need anything ... anything at all?"

Danny's left arm was strapped to his chest to take pressure off the healing bullet wound. At such close range, a serious amount of damage had been done. The bullet had shattered his clavicle, the bone diverting the small missile upwards to tear through muscle. He'd lost a significant amount of blood and earned himself a purulent infection to boot. Oddly, the doctors said he'd been incredibly lucky. If the bullet had gone in any other direction, he'd have bled out in minutes or lost the use of his arm. Nonetheless, this _supposed_ turn at good luck would keep Danny out of commission for weeks to come.

He was _home_ but looked chronically ill and tired much too easily. He couldn't work, couldn't drive, had yet to even begin discussing the concept of physical therapy and hadn't even _asked_ when he might be able to do any one of those things. Not once. So Steve wasn't the only one worried by that point because they'd all been put through the proverbial mill.

"Steve ...," Exasperated by the molly-coddling, Danny started to reply. The words that ran through his head were at first caustic and completely defensive, but he suddenly switched gears. His injury had been severe enough and Steve had every right to be hen-pecking and worrying over his recovery. In fact, Danny was darn blessed just to be _home_ and he well knew it.

"Yes, I'm honestly ... truthfully ... okay." Danny stressed seriously. "I haven't been in bed all day ... I ate lunch ... took my meds, read a book, and even managed a nap. I'm good, Steve. Really."

"Okay," Steve nodded, mollified as he poked the shopping bag, a genuine smile finally breaking free. He relaxed, moved on and focused on what his friend was so anxious to see. When he met Danny's eyes, his smile grew proudly. "So yeah, I got it. One dark brown leather moleskin journal as ordered."

" _Coffee_ -brown," Danny corrected him as he tried squirrel himself higher on the pillows. His excitement was back and firmly in place. "The description specifically said _coffee-brown_ , Steven. And where's the quiver? Did you get that too? Is it the double quiver like I wanted? Let me see it all."

"Yes, Danny," Steve patiently answered as he carefully pulled one of the smaller boxed items from the bag first. "Everything's perfect. It's just what you wanted and he's going to love it."

He opened the rectangular white box to show Danny what was inside, pleased by the quiet reaction. "Just like the journal, its 100% leather, hand-made. It's the finest quiver out there in mocha ... a perfect accessory for the new journal. It'll slide right on over the hard cover and it will hold the two pens side by side ..."

" _Fountain_ pens," Danny interrupted, his jaw jutting out temperamentally. " _Custom_ fountain pens ... the details are important. Critical in fact."

"Fine, yes! _Fountain_ pens! And before you ask ... yes, they were also in ... it's all here, buddy," Steve laughed as he pulled out the second box to show off the custom writing instruments before stowing them off to the side. He jokingly lifted an eyebrow with one final tap of his hand on the shopping bag, intentionally leaving the best for last.

"Are you ready?" Steve asked, unable to stop grinning when Danny merely nodded. With a flourish, he pulled out the larger box and put it on Danny's lap, pulling the top off to reveal the personalized moleskin journal inside. A special gift which was more than a mere adequate replacement for Prsym's completely ruined spiral bound journal of poetry.

"Wow," Danny hushed out completely impressed by the fine leather. Two fingers gently ghosted over the embossed lettering almost in awe, before he looked up at Steve. "We did good."

" **You** did good," Steve softly corrected him, entirely pleased as Danny comfortably sagged back against the pillows. "Prysm is going to love this, Danno."

**H5O* H5O* H5O* H5O* H5O**

 

Prysm answered the door, unfazed by the Express delivery company's driver who gave him a queer look. Likely for the lip ring and newly styled coif of midnight blue hair. Accustomed to such reactions, Prysm remained utterly indifferent until he signed for the package and realized it was for him - _Brad_ Morris - and not for his father, the senior _Bradley_ further denoted by the honorific title of _Esquire_.

He stood there a while, just inside the lintel wondering who or why someone would send him anything until he closed the front door out of necessity. By the time he had done that, the delivery truck was long gone down the drive. But he didn't notice. He innately sensed what was inside would be special ... personal ... a gift just for him. Even though no one was home, he took the package to his room for privacy's sake where he sat quietly on his bed, his back up against the wall. He opened the outer box with care using his small penknife, making sure he was neat and cautious. Inside, was the main box but he paused to read the enclosed card first, smiling to himself when he read the very short note.

_**P ~ sorry about your journal. ~ D.** _

Prysm appreciated the brevity of the note and the solitude that a delivery afforded him. It was almost as if Danny knew he'd be embarrassed by too many words or by a personal face to face visit. _Mortified_ and put off by too much attention. The situation was awkward at best and Prysm was still working through the horrors of what had happened. He had dreams ... nightmares really ... and he was slow to get back on an even keel. He knew Danny was recovering too and getting better; he appreciated that fact and was truthfully very relieved for the detective. But other than that, Prysm wanted to forget that terrible day and he'd done his best to avoid the initial flurry of attention; most especially from a hungry media.

Still smiling and completely unsuspecting of what was truly inside, he lifted the lid to the inner box. He rummaged through the few sheaves of rich gold-colored paper and then his fingers froze scant inches from the dark brown leather. He closed his eyes, inhaled sharply and then looked again to be sure and this time, his jaw dropped open, mouth agape.

"No way," he stammered softly. "No _fucking_ way. Are you serious?"

The dark brown leather journal was exquisite to his eyes. The double quiver was already in place on its cover and holding the pair of custom fountain pens. Side by side and ready for his use, each pen was a burnished mahogany. Prysm was speechless as the profound import of Danny's gift sincerely hit home. He read the embossed lettering on its cover over and over just to be certain he wasn't seeing things. Doubting everything was _real_ ... and if it were real, he wasn't sure he deserved such a fine gift. And to this latter thought, he'd almost guess Danny's disgusted retort. So just as Danny had done once before, Prysm gently touched the embossed letters on the leather cover, tracing each with his fingertips.

_**"O ka pono ke hana 'ia a iho mai no lani"** _

It didn't matter to Prysm if Danny had help with finding just the right Hawaiian inscription. Not at all; _not one bit_ because the man meant it and he meant this fine gift to be something treasured for Prysm alone. Something more than special which would replace his originally assumed irreplaceable paper journal full of poetry and hold significance. He hadn't thought such a thing possible ... and he'd literally just been proven entirely wrong.

Near tears, the teen caressed the expensive leather cover and smiled, his eyes shining brightly. Of everything that could have been said or shared to give him peace, the Detective had selected the most perfect one of all: _"Continue to do good until the heavens come down to you."_

_**~ END ~** _


End file.
